If I could frame for you in cunning words
The songs my heart in sleep is often singing,
You'd fancy, love, an orquestra of birds
Upon their quivering throats the dawn were bringing.
Now in some wild, weird flush of melody
I'd feign the skylark, with his music sifting
The final films of nightshade from the lea,
And all the waking world to heaven uplifting.
Then, ere the lengthening liquid solo went--
In skylark fashion--out of hearing o'er us,
I'd mock with skill, as sweet as my intent,
Thrustle and blackbird coming in for chorus.
There's not a strain of joy the birds could sing,
I could not set to words that I've been dreaming;
But when I wake, alas! they all take wing,
And leave of music but the empty seeming.
Believe me, love, I sing to you, in sleep,
Songs that if voiced would waken you to pleasure;
Would you could hear them in your dreams, and keep
Their inner meaning, though you missed the measure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.